Swamp thing

If I were a weapon of mass destruction, I would orphan your ancestors.

If I were...

God Bless stagnance. God bless still. Fuck the motherfuckers who think moving forward is the only way to move. Your progress-only ideology has royally tainted my peace. You are the fleck of manure to my bucket of milk.

If I were a Marcus Yarrow, if I were a Marcus Flutie....why are so many fictional iconoclasts named Marcus?

Molly the Robot is the escape. Who is the girl?

Why can't the story just be about recovery? Can I let it sit? Can I trust it to breathe?

There's so much pressure. But from where? From YOU. Chill the eff out.
Marcus, Marcus...What Would Marcus Do?

WWMD?

What WMD? The kind that disturbs the shit.


-I

"It's not Ann-Margret"

Last night I was resized for a new brazier. I lifted my arms and a lady clerk wrapped a measuring tape around my chest, below my bust, across my boobs etc. And the entire time all I was thinking about was how I wouldn't mind going up a cup size. In fact - I'd prefer it. A thought, one year ago I would have never, EVER had. Ghastly, it would have been! But now, the idea of bigger boobs, it'd be kind of righteous. More "adult"... more "twenty-two." ;)

I've never been a "boob" girl. I've never been an "ass" girl either. And it's probably because I used to suffer from flat-syndrome. Mosquito-bite-flat-syndrome. As a chubby child I guess I had a "chest" before most. I even remember a bunch of girls on the schoolyard amused by my pre-mature 11 year old bosoms - pressing into them with their hands as if on buttons or a doorbell, or one of those push pod lights as seen on late night tv ads. Such a weird thing to have happened, to look back on - but it happened. And then once 13 hit all of those skinny little girls with no boobs (but an uber perverted boob fetish) became C cups and in comparison I became flat girl. And everything seemed to change. They were on their way to becoming women. And I was kind of a clob. I just invented the word "clob" to describe how I felt and looked (and sometimes still feel and look) because the way it sounds signifies the essence of my feelings at the time. You know how words can just do that? Capture a feeling? Insinuate and connotate? I love that. Clob. How do you think it means? How, what. Clob. Kind of awkward. Not thin. But not fat. Not developed, but not under developed. Not really feminine. But still kind of womanly. Clob. Think about it.

Anyways, apparently I'm past this flat-syndrome misfortune now. It's like a semi-awakening has happened - a neo-puberty revolution, if you will.

And it all makes sense. I feel my age. I even look it, more than ever.

Allow me to geek out for my next statement: Transformation is so cool.

Transformation allows a single soul to live many life-times and have many identities over one span of life. We go through phases - changes - developments. In a way, the growth and phases of an identity compares to the growth and phases of a musical band.

This upcoming year is the "Moxie, mystery/blond magic" tour. It's far from melancholy. Far from blue. It's exciting and new.

***

Slowly, but most definitely I am discovering the secrets of becoming a 22 year old women - a one of a kind, passionate, soulful human being with female parts and a hell of an overactive brain.

My 22nd birthday is in 8 days. This is always a sensitive time for me. Sometimes I get sad and lonely and nostalgic for all birthdays prior to my 18th - prior to "adulthood."

But this year things are different. Hell, I look like a completely different person.

And I wouldn't say i'm satisfied, because that seems almost impossible being a Libra and all, but I am however, happy with this climb that I'm currently on towards satisfaction - towards betterment, enlightenment, success, sex etc.

Since I love words (because words can take me anywhere, feel anything) - the following is a list of words that seem to define what it means to be almost 22, to be 22:

- moxie

- mystery

- magic

- blond

- sangria

- woman

Numbers mean nothing. You feel as young or as adult as you choose to live... but there's always something exciting about a birthday. I'm excited. It's exciting.

Yay :)

xo

el oh.

intelligence is knowing others, wisdom is knowing yourself.

Sink your teeth right through my bones, baby

I want heartache and sadness and pain, physical pain. I want it to be the kind of pain, the kind of epic hurt that someone else causes.

A boy someone. Or... a man someone... i guess.

I want uncontrollable tears that just fall from our eyes. We lean in... foreheads touch. Sweat.

Salt on my lips. And then we, and then we... and then we kiss. And, oh my God, we just fall into it...9.8 m/s, outer space, black holes, and exploding stars kind of kiss... and you hear that "humph" sound, as we try and catch our breath - lips together. And you press in, harder and and firmer. I squeeze my eyes shut. And it's just... words cannot explain. They shouldn't have to.

I want to hurt you. I want you to hurt me back. Or hurt me first. And I want it to mean something. Anything.

Not anything. Something.

I want to meet someone. Someone new. And I want us to hurt each other. Because if we hurt each other - it means we care for each other. CARE.

I want to care about someone so bad. Not anyone... someone... meaningful, that makes me dizzy and weak in the knees. Someone I want to be around all the time. Talk endless hours. Can't eat, can't sleep. Will eat, will sleep. And oh,

I want it to hurt when I see them... even when I catch a glimpse of them from across the room, from afar. Or even when I just think I do... but it's someone else...and I still get that 50ft. drop, roller coaster colliding down faster, faster, break the jar, release one hundred butterflies fluttering in my stomach kind of feeling.

I'm starting to think all those people who fall to pieces over any old guy are actually the lucky ones.

Why must I always learn the hard way? Walk the harder road? Take the harder punch?

Well I guess the harder life is, the more it'll hurt in the end.

And I want it to hurt.

Hurt so bad.

xoLo

Masochist baby.

Dashboard Saints of America

What does it mean to be a dashboard saint in America?

A little piece of plastic Jesus bobbing it’s head back and forth

wafting in car fog.... coughing on the stench of 66 cigarettes snuffed out in an ashtray.

A clay little mold with the finger-print of a first-grader. Happy Birthday to the best father in the world. That you old man? Your boots at the bedside. Dirt on the floor. Spit in the sink. Cum on the couch cushions.

The ones I sit on. Rest on.

Eyes closed and dreaming.

Skip, skip, BANG. We hit a speed bump, and whiplash I’m up again.

Ain’t one thing’s changed except for the blood on the tires.

It’s still hot. Hot, hot.

Hot leather, like beans flaming in the pan, and onto my tongue. Kill my taste buds for the stretch of the I-35.

I wish I was high.

But I’m not.

And there’s sweat on my lip. Sweat on my chest. Sweat in all them private places, I don't like to sweat, but I do.

Feedback screeching from the radio, the AM. The dashboard doctrines of Sunday morning. I wonder what the preacher and his wife did last night. Or what he and the deacon did before comin’ on home to his wife’s casserole.
A little peach cobbler “a la mode.”

Here’s your wine spritzer Dear. Spike it with alkaline and make him choke. Oh.. OH OHHHHH

And Oh how the angels sing on high. Sweet pocket praises to the one and the holy, our heavenly father.

And so we pray.

Pray for the able and the Aryan. The moral and the monied.

For the status quo. And the dosey doe....

And for smiles.

The ones we make even when we don’t mean it.

Sun in my eyes and I squint.

Through the slits, I see the big plastic head bobbing back and forth. I see his painted on smile, his bleach-white teeth and a hellish yellow halo.

Probably made from that penny an hour, Taiwanese table paint.

The toxic kind.

xoLo

I'm stuck on a long drive, and it's true - everything's bigger in Texas.

The Kids Aren't Alright

I've been thinking a lot about my ability to procreate lately and I've come to the conclusion that most parents were irresponsible. How many of them, do you think, honestly considered their ability to raise well-centered, well-adjusted children? Right now, I don't think I can do that. I think I would destroy my child. I think it would grow to hate me, to hate what I had done to it, to hate those incurable beliefs that I had planted into its soft, unsuspecting, innocent soul. I would never do that. I don't want to.

I think most people nowadays are mistakes. Weak daughters raised by weak mothers who were themselves weak daughters raised by weak mothers. Weak fathers. Powerless and impotent and selfish and cowardly. Brutal, neglectful, uneducated, incompetent. Mama's boys and poor little rich girls fucking to spawn idiot, angry children so stupid their anger yields nothing but self-destruction, self-pity, self-mutilating selves. Fuck mistakes. Fuck people.

-I


If I could turn back time....I'd set it to zero.

A beauty cold and austere

What I like best about autumn is that it's cold. "But winter is colder," you say. Well, I know that, you ninny, but let me finish.

What I like best about autumn is that it's cold, it's colourful and when it is wet, it is a cinematic, lustful wet that stays well out of your peacoat but beckons you to explore more. Some people associate that kind of moisture with: spring. To hell with spring! Spring is for flower smellers and manure enthusiasts. Autumn is where its at. It's death. It's harvest. It's beautiful, explosive, festive, imbued with the kind of energy you feel when a storm approaches, when thunder claps: exciting, terrifying, up with your hackles but always wanting more. Take your flowers, I'd rather roll (or be rolled) in the dying bramble.

Can you tell I've been reading erotica?

Things that are getting me jazzed:

Men's fashion: Easy to overlook, but difficult to get just right. Few things look as good as a man in a good suit that fits him well. And unlike the ridiculousness that some women wear, men always (usually, often) look good so long as the fit is right.

Inglorious Basterds: The more I think about it, the more I like it. Too long, for sure, but then what kind of QT movie would it be if it didn't need some serious 86-ing? I dug. Makes me want to practice my dying French.

Oatmeal: Low GI, easy to prepare, cheap and plentiful, Scottish roots...what's not to love? Current obsession: bathing it in condensed milk and a splash of lactose-free. : )

The Bloor-Gladstone Library: Great public space. Finally, a library that makes me want to read on the spot.

Indonesian Horror: Like Basterds, the more I think about it, the more I like it. The Forbidden Door dir. by Joko Anwar. I'm not crazy about the ending, but damn, Gambir, it's messed up. And it doesn't look a thing like other Asian horror films.

San Fransisco: The cool of California without the heat of California. Being an indoor cat, I prefer year-round sweater weather to desert-and-sweat grossness. Ugh. I don't know how I'm Vietnamese.

Costumes: Because if I'm going to dress up, I'm going to do it like a slut. Or...not.

Computer Science: Because I don't know anything about it, but I want to.

Wikipedia: Because few things are as satisfying as free, kinda-accurate databases of information.



Yours,

I


If I were struggle, I would be...the war on apathy.

Sometimes I want to take my toaster in the bath...

"You wanna know what your problem is? MTV, Playboy, and Madison f--king Avenue. Yeah. Let me explain something to you, OK? Look, girls with big tits have big asses, girls with little tits have little asses. That's the way it goes. God doesn't f--k around, he's a fair guy. He gave the fatties big, beautiful tits and the skinnies little, tiny niddlers. It's not my rule If you don't like it, call him...(Looking at a Penthouse magazine) Oh, guys, look what we have here. Look at this, your favorite. Oh, you like that?...Yeah, that's nice, right? Well, it doesn't exist, OK. Look at the hair. The hair is long, it's flowing, it's like a river. Well, it's a f--kin' weave, OK? And the tits, please! I could hang my overcoat on them. Tits, by design, were invented to be suckled by babies. Yes, they're purely functional. These are silicon city. And look, my favorite, the shaved pubis. Pubic hair being so unruly and all. Very key. This is a mockery, this is a sham, this is bulls--t. Implants, collagen, plastic, capped teeth, the fat sucked out, the hair extended, the nose fixed, the bush shaved... These are not real women, all right? They're beauty freaks. And they make all us normal women with our wrinkles, our puckered boobs - hi Bob - our cellulite, feel somehow inadequate. Well, I don't buy it, all right? But you f--kin' mooks, you think if there's a chance in hell that you'll end up with one of these women, you don't give us real women anything approaching a commitment. It's pathetic. I don't know what you think you're gonna do. You're gonna end up eighty-years old, drooling in some nursing home, then you're gonna decide, it's time to settle down, get married, have kids? What, are you gonna find a cheerleader?...If you had an ounce of self-esteem, of self-worth, of self-confidence, you would realize that as trite as it may sound, beauty is truly skin-deep. And you know what, if you ever did hook one of those girls, I guarantee you'd be sick of her... No matter how perfect the nipple, how supple the thigh, unless there's some other s--t going on in the relationship besides the physical, it's gonna get old, OK? And you guys, as a gender, have got to get a grip, otherwise the future of the human race is in jeopardy." - Gina Barrisano, Beautiful Girls

- L o xx